


i'm lost, i'm found in you

by Curator_of_Crows



Series: so one last time love, come and rip my clothes off [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Communication, Crying, Explicit Language, Gender Dysphoria, Good thing Roach is here to accept head pats, I had bad gender feels the other day and wanted to project via fanfic, Mel Has Gender Feelings and Doesn't Know What To Do With Them, Multi, Neurodivergent MC, Please read opening notes, Polyamory, gender-neutral oc, i didn't do anything to edit this, no beta we die like men, off-screen communication, y'all the relationship tags are a nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator_of_Crows/pseuds/Curator_of_Crows
Summary: Mel hears Jaskier sing and it's lovely.Up until it's not.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Reader, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Reader, they're all together and poly okay
Series: so one last time love, come and rip my clothes off [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2126370
Kudos: 2





	i'm lost, i'm found in you

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i've been struggling with writing the things i've originally been wanting to write so i finished this lil piece  
> Takes place before the events of 'let's wander 'til the fuckers demand an encore'  
> Obvious TW for gender dysphoria but they work it out off-screen, i think this is mostly a character study mixed with an original character study. I'm not entirely sure but i wanted to post something for validation (please validate me omg)  
> (also is it obvious i'm not a lyricist? sorry dkgjasd;fl)

How you feel about your body is, to put it simply, complicated.

With all the magic in the continent, all of the mages who specialize in the things you’ve thought of doing to your body in the twenty-something years you’ve been alive. It wasn’t enough that you had some kind of problem with your head, but how you felt about your body had to flip violently between ‘Don’t Like This’ and ‘Like This’ like you were a kikimora’s plaything.

You’ve… been trying to work through those thoughts. You know they’re not healthy, that they’re the result of growing up in a relatively cold home. You used to think, “Oh, well, if I made myself like my body and place, forced myself to be normal, then maybe I wouldn’t be so much of a burden on my family”. Despite your best efforts, sometimes you still do, even though you haven’t heard from your mother or father in more than a year. So you bottle things up, try to force them back into a chest and lock them there until they drown with you. It’s not a good thing to do this, you know, because you’re already so sensitive to things without the help of internalized hatred.

Then things _changed_. Like, _really changed_.

You met Geralt and Jaskier, two men who came to your little village to handle a situation that took the lives of your fishermen. To say you snuck off into the night would be a bit dramatic, but it isn’t entirely untrue. Yes, you left abruptly, barely giving a farewell to your parents, but to be fair they didn’t give much of one to you either.

Geralt and Jaskier would mention another, a mage whose name you learned to be Yennefer, and then a child, Ciri. A little family of their own, mismatched and wandering, looking for something they all found in each other: understanding.

You’d never felt more adored.

To think though, that romantic endeavors cured anyone of troubled thoughts is a slippery slope into a hill of rose bushes- you’re enamored by the beautiful colors and soft petals, so much that you don’t see the thorns until you’ve fallen in. You know this.

And yet, when the four of you had settled into the inn during a heavy storm, you found yourself intentionally avoiding any mirrors. There were only two of them in the rooms, in total, but somehow no matter where you busied yourself, you were able to see the curves of your body, the swell of your chest and hips. You don’t even mind your hips that much but seeing how the leather top over your underclothes made your breasts noticeable makes you feel _wrong_ in your body. It isn’t even that they look any particular way, the mere existence of them leaves you feeling like curling into yourself until you’ve morphed out of a cocoon and into a body you feel comfortable in.

The fact that you’re an open book exacerbates this.

It’s just you and Jaskier in the inn for the moment- Geralt and Yennefer are speaking with someone in the tavern, hoping for the chance of getting a bit of a discount on the rooms since they’d both been to the village before.

Jaskier is idly strumming on his lute, humming along as he occasionally pauses to scribble something on the sheet of paper next to him. He leans back into the chair again, posture mostly relaxed as he plucks a few more notes.

You can’t help but watch as he sings softly, his attention elsewhere as you trace the shape of his body with your eyes. He’s not as large as Geralt- he’s never lived the life of a Witcher, but he also isn’t _small._ Jaskier is taller than you by a good few inches, just barely taller than Yennefer unless she wears heels, and has broad shoulders that look very nice in the grey and yellow tunic he wears. He’s got a soft pad of tummy, a softness that stubbornly remained despite the active lifestyle he’s had to take up while by Geralt’s side. He complains about it sometimes, but you like the softness. You like how warm and pleasant his hugs are, how healthy and alive he looks.

But… part of you envies his form; envies how the softness of his body didn’t give him the bits you don’t want on yourself. You don’t like thinking that; something feels inappropriate, being jealous of a lover’s body. You squirm where you sit on the bed the old wooden frame creaking with your motions and pulling Jaskier’s attention to you.

He smiles, eyes sparkling just a touch and it’s like a punch to the gut with fondness. He turns a little, like you’re his audience now and his fingers dance over the strings of the lute, this time with purpose. You momentarily forget that you’d been longingly staring at his body as he begins to sing.

It starts sweet, gentle as he sings about your eyes. It makes you blush and for a moment, the discomfort slowly loosens its grip on your stomach. It’s almost too much, how sincere his voice is when he describes waking up next to you. But it’s not _bad_ , and you struggle to hide your silly, embarrassed grin when he sings of how _you make everyone smile when you stop to say hello to the little frogs_ , and when he recounts the time when _you apologized to a tree that you’d nicked in the bark, trying to study the Witcher’s steps and take them to heart._

Soon your swaying to the chords he plucks, feeling almost fuzzy and content.

And then he sings of resting his weary head on your breast, how adored he feels when you ask him how his day was. His voice dips lower, softer in the song as he admits that _he can always think of something nice when you ask him of an awful day, even if it’s stormed at least the wind didn’t blow him away._

He’s mostly humming now, being silly and trying to pluck more lyrics from his string of thought here and there but all you can think about is what he sang a moment ago. It makes your skin crawl in the worst way possible. For a moment you feel almost angry that he could perceive your body but that anger feels _wrong_ and the uncomfortable heat rising up your neck only makes it worse.

You stand abruptly, desperately trying to not look at his wide-eyed shock and wind up speaking over whatever he’s beginning to say. “I um, I need to check on Roach, I think I s-saw something. On the, the road. Sorry,” you stutter, digging crescents in your palms to avoid crying in front of him. This is your problem, why should you make it his too?

It’s such a terrible excuse, you know it is and you suspect he knows too but he doesn’t say anything as you hurry to the door. Heat is rising to your cheeks as a sick feeling lodges itself in your chest and it _hurts_ because you want to sit and listen to him sing, you love hearing his voice and you love when he sings to you but you just _can’t._ You can’t hear him sing about your beauty because it makes you want to crawl out of your own skin because it doesn’t feel like it’s _yours_.

You dig the blunt edges of your nails into the palms of your fisted hands, so hard that if you kept them long, you’d draw blood. Anything to fight back tears because you don’t want him to see it, you don’t want him to feel guilty for sharing his affection the way he’s always done it.

You swing the door open and of course, _of course_ , to your utter horror, Yennefer and Geralt are standing there. Geralt’s hand is up, key in hand like he was in the middle of unlocking the door and it takes barely a second of that initial shock to let go enough that a stream of hot tears fall down your cheeks.

You push between the two of them, ignoring Geralt’s soft questioning and Yen calling your name, the look of worry on her face. Under the sound of your footsteps, you can hear Yen asking Jaskier what happened, in a not-so-pleasant tone and Jaskier’s stuttering, honestly sounding like he’s as close to tears as you are. You have the thought as you practically throw yourself into the sheets of rain, that this is entirely your fault.

“What _the fuck_ was that?” Yennefer is furious, and in her head rightly so. You rarely cried in front of them, if at all. Something had to have been said, and she wants to know what could have possibly been so hurtful that it made you run off.

Jaskier is sitting on the chair, wide-eyed, too shocked to really argue back with her despite the years of practice they both have by that point. He sets the lute down on the table next to him, not even careful and he shakes his head, voice soft as he admits, “I-I don’t know, I was just singing to her, I thought everything was okay and then she suddenly said that she had to check on Roach and she looked like she was going to cry and, and-”

Geralt places a hand on his shoulder and holds his other to Yennefer, knowing full well to not touch her like this. She snaps her gaze to him, eyes _smoldering_ and not in a desiring way until he speaks.

“Jaskier, _what did you sing?”_

The bard blinks, taking a deep breath before reciting the improvised song and feeling the slightest bit vindicated when Yen’s face turns to one of bewilderment. “See? I thought we were just having a swell time, I don’t know what happened!”

Geralt pats his shoulder to calm him down again, already feeling Jaskier’s and Yen’s tension building on his own, and he was not enjoying a second of it. It _is_ puzzling, even he knows that you love hearing Jaskier sing- Gods, he sings you to sleep when the both of you are too exhausted for it!

Yennefer shifts her weight from one foot to the other, “That’s it? Nothing else?” She asks. The accusatory tone’s dropped considerably, but she’s still suspicious. She runs through a mental checklist of what could’ve happened that day and can’t think of anything that isn’t something you’ve not gone through before. You’d be exhausted, maybe prickly, but she honestly can’t think of what the final straw was, what made you break down at the words of a song-

Oh. _Oh._

“W-what, what is it? Did I do something?” Jaskier immediately picks up the searching expression on Yennefer’s face, desperate to understand so he can never do whatever he did to make you cry ever, ever again.

She sighs a somber sound, “You’ve never sang a song for her about _her_ , have you?” She’s surprised she didn’t pick up on it earlier. Yennefer has heard stray musicians improvise a few lines about her beauty as she’s walked by. It’s often meaningless to her because she knows that she’s beautiful to others, regardless of how she feels about herself. She knows what she can do with those assets alone, not counting the immense power she obtained alongside them. But before that? If someone sang to her of her beauty she would’ve felt humiliated, mocked, whether the lyricist was genuine or not.

Kind words can sting as much as an insult, depending on the circumstances. Yennefer knows this, _intimately_.

Jaskier shakes his head, “I don’t think I have, is- is that it? Did I embarrass her?”

She hums thoughtfully before disagreeing, “I can’t say _why_ she would probably feel that way, but maybe it was too much?” She’s thankful that Jaskier has the grace to not ask why she would know anything about it. Some subjects, they’ve both come to agree, are better saved for gentler discussion.

While Yennefer and Jaskier theorize what could’ve gone wrong, Geralt inches to the windows of the room, seeing the stables just down the way a little bit, through the heavy rain. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to see, perhaps neither would Yennefer, but he can see Roach in her stall through the opening. He recognizes the colors of her coat and her posture, a relaxed pose that faintly reminds him of a house cat lapping up as much affection as it possibly can.

He also sees you, standing outside her stall but half-leaning into it while you press your head against Roach’s. He thinks for a second, though he’s behind in the conversation with Yen and Jaskier now, that he isn’t very surprised that this happened. He feels a bit like a fool, for not having noticed before even if he still doesn’t quite understand it. Very few people avoid mirrors as much as he did.

He steps towards the door, pausing only because Yennefer and Jaskier demand to know where he’s going. Jaskier is crying for real now and Yen, though not crying, looks close enough to it.

“I’m going to talk to Mel. I don’t think- hmm, I don’t think Mel is upset with _you_ , Jaskier,” he says.

Jaskier sags in the chair with a defeated look, “I don’t care if Mel’s _mad_ at me, that we can work through-” he can’t finish his statement, but Geralt can guess why he’s torn up about this. Could the bard be vindictive sometimes? A little too vengeful? Yes. But he might as well have been a child all those years ago. Where he was simply a fully grown adult then, he’s become a bit of a matured adult despite all the teasing and joking. He’d never want to truly hurt someone. Geralt remembers their first meeting after… after the cliffs. Jaskier had put on a front to protect himself, but the moment those walls came down, so did the tears that had built up over the time they were separated.

Geralt’s expression softens, “And you will with this as well,” he says. He leans down to kiss his forehead, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. He straightens and looks to Yennefer, who leans her head in slightly and he presses his forehead to hers. What comforts Jaskier in these times is certainly _not_ the same as what comforts her. Yennefer’s so similar to you in some ways, he thinks, and he pulls away to leave the room. The stable is such a short distance away, but he can’t help the bit of haste in his step as he walks.

“Hi, Roach,” you hum softly.

The horse wastes no time addressing your presence with a _bonk_ to the head, just enough pressure to announce herself and request affection from you.

You’d managed to hold back most your tears on the walk, furiously scrubbing at your face before reaching the end of the stairs and out the door, into the pouring rain. It’s not quite freezing, but cold enough to snap you to reality any time your head threatens to float away.

A few tears do slip out when you greet Roach, but they’re not so panicked or distraught. Unlike the storm around you, your tears slow to a drizzle like everything you’d held for so many years finally started to come out.

“I know it’s ridiculous, I know I should’ve just been happy with hearing him, but…” you pause as you try to find the right words for it. With little issue speaking to a horse, you continue, “I guess maybe how I feel isn’t just in my head.”

Roach snorts and you smile. Roach doesn’t judge you for messing up words or stumbling through things you’d heard other people say before, hoping that you made the right choice. You can understand why most people think it’s hard to work with animals, but it’s rarely been difficult for you. Animals don’t expect you to have the tongue of a scholar and they usually don’t mind if you’ve got the mouth of a sailor, so long as you’re not too loud.

You wrinkle your nose, “Yeah, I know. Funny how feelings work right?”

“ _Funny indeed-”_

You choke on whatever it is you planned to say and whip around, startling an annoyed huff from Roach as she backs into her stall a step. Geralt is standing behind you, face soft as he slowly approaches. Roach relaxes, and you relax a fraction yourself, feeling a tide of shame wash across your cheeks. You wave at him.

He hums a greeting to you, stopping when he’s arm’s length away from Roach and reaches out. She gives him the same treatment she gave you earlier and he smiles at her. He looks at you, “May I join you?”

You nod.

“You can talk when you’re ready,” he says.

It wasn’t a command, not like the ones he’s given you in the past during the few times he’s felt more domineering, but rather a reassurance. One that you’re grateful to hear too, because it allows to you breathe and exist without pressure.

You like being around Geralt for a number of reasons. He’s a calming presence and when he’s feeling up for it, gives you the loveliest hugs that make you feel the happiest, safest you ever felt. Not only that, but he makes sense to you. You’ve rarely ever had to guess his feelings because he’s straightforward with you. If you still asked though, he never made you feel stupid for it. He told you once that he wasn’t always like this, but you know that people change. In times like these he understands that for you, abstaining from speech isn’t a sign of giving up – it just means you need a second to breathe or another way to communicate.

Though, times like these are rare and you know you have to talk about it. The little seed of dread rooting itself in your gut steals your words from you the first few times you try to speak.

_One step at a time_ , you say to yourself, “Is Jaskier mad?”

Geralt shakes his head, “No, but he is worried that he hurt you.”

You sigh sharply through your nose, because that feels even worse. In fact, it is literally the opposite of what you attempted to do. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, voice betraying you as it cracks.

He turns to you and tilts your head up, “Mel, what happened?”

Oh, oh Gods, you’re not sure how to say it. Not with Geralt looking at you so you stare at his chest instead. If there’s anyone on the continent who would understand you, Geralt might just be the closest person to that. He probably knows what it’s like to feel wrong, right? And maybe, deep down, you want to feel loved for you and not in spite of you, like how you, Yen, and Jaskier love him.

So, you take a deep breath and start with the basics.

“I feel wrong in my body.”

A beat passes before he nods slowly, “You feel sick?”

“N-No, but, I feel like,” you wring your hands a little bit, trying to formulate the words that struggle to reveal themselves to you. “When, when Jaskier sang to me, it was nice at first. I felt special, y’know,” you give a sort of nervous laugh, making a shrugging gesture, “But, well, he mentioned part of my body, ah- n-not in a bad way either! I, I think the line was something like, ‘I rest my head upon h-her…”

You groan, covering your face with your hands, “It shouldn’t be this hard,” you grumble.

Geralt frowns slightly, puzzled until suddenly he isn’t any more when he sees you cross your arms, tightly over your chest and look away. “You don’t like having breasts?” He’s direct with the question, probably a little more interrogating than he intended, but it has the desired effect anyway.

“A lot of the time, yes. They don’t feel right on me.” Your cheeks are flaming; you could boil the rainwater dripping from your hair if you flushed any brighter.

Geralt pauses to think, because this wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but it made sense. Yennefer dresses functionally during your travels, but you always snag something from Geralt or Jaskier- especially because the clothing you brought along wasn’t exactly made for traveling and deteriorated rather quickly. And, when presented with the opportunity to dress nicer, you still defaulted to something closer to how they dressed and not Yen. But you still complimented her and hung around by her side any chance you could get, so it was a personal comfort-

He realizes something, then.

“Mel,” he says softly, and you look up at him. You like his voice because he’s often calm with you- even when irritated, he doesn’t treat you like a child. None of them do. When you meet his gaze, he’s very serious and asks, “When we’ve been together…”

You don’t let him finish the sentence, uncaring if you’re misunderstanding his question now because he’d likely ask what you’ll answer anyway. “It’s never felt bad then! Erm, well, I guess when I’m being touched,” Geralt quirks a brow just a little at your embarrassed grin, “W-When I’m touched by one of you, it doesn’t feel… bad? It still feels good, but it also doesn’t feel as though I’m expected to, to _be_ a particular way. I get to be…”

“You get to be _you_ ,” Geralt finishes and you nod fervently.

You’re about to say something else, you’re sure of it, but Roach makes a noise and butts her head in between you two again because clearly she’s the most important member of the party and she needs her attention. It takes very little convincing on her part to get you and Geralt to give that to her, the two of you patting her head and enjoying each other’s company.

You feel even better -safer- when Geralt consents to you holding his hand on the way back to the inn, your fingers tracing the lines of old, almost-faded scars.

“Mmm, Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“D-Do you think he’s mad?”

Geralt blinks at you, puzzling for a second before shaking his head, “No, Mel, he’s not mad. Want me to go in first and hold him still?”

You snort and shake your head, “No, no, I think I’m just nervous…” You’re certain actually, that Yennefer probably had to tie Jaskier to the bed and _not_ in the way done in the past, just to keep him from pacing holes into the wooden floor.

You feel a gentle, firm warmth to the top of your head, a kiss, and a hand on your shoulder. You take a deep breath and look up to Geralt with a smile, with him mirroring a soft one to you.

You had walked to the inn, mostly soaked from the rain. You had to take some deep breaths for a moment, Geralt letting you hold his hand while you worked yourself down before going up the stairs. When you were a kid, you tried to talk about these feelings to the mage sought out by your parents. Your head was easy enough to work with, but the mage didn’t quite understand how you felt about your body. At first you’d assumed that everyone felt that way –you weren’t even a teenager yet– but that wasn’t really the case, he insisted, it must be a part of your social impairment. And that boy when you were so young–

Stop thinking about that. Right now, you’re about to talk to the people you deeply care about and who you’re pretty sure feel the same way about you at this point.

It takes another breath in and out to get you to open the door, kind of butting your way into the room indignantly as Geralt tries to open the door for you instead. You hear Yen and Jaskier stop whatever muttering they were doing to turn to you but looking directly at them felt just a touch overwhelming so you open the door wider for Geralt to come through after you. He gives you an unamused look and you blink.

“I have no problem opening the door for you, honeybee.”

You shrug, “Maybe I wanted to open the door for _you_ , shush,” you tease.

Geralt smiles and you see him look to the chair and little table that Yennefer and Jaskier are perched on, respectively. You close the door behind him.

_Alright, one more deep breath-_

You turn and Jaskier’s eyes are puffy and irritated, lined red like he’d been crying and the guilt punches the air from your lungs and takes its place. Yennefer was on the verge of it too, barely holding it in compared to Jaskier, but her jaw was clenched and her lilac eyes were watery.

Jaskier hops down from the table but stops before taking a step forward, a question on the tip of his tongue, you can tell. Yen turns in the chair, her legs uncrossed now as she looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something – anything.

You clear your throat and find yourself glancing from Geralt to Yennefer to Jaskier while you gather your words. You get a bit of an encouraging look from Geralt beside you, and you finally settle on something to say.

“Um, everything’s okay, but I think we do need to talk.”

“Hey,” Geralt murmurs into your temple, voice low and rough from sleep.

Having been falling in and out of sleep for the last hour or so, your eyes blink open with little difficulty, but you do yawn before you mumble a cracked, “What?”

Yen’s arm tightens around your middle as you shift, muttering something into your shoulder before settling into slumber again. Jaskier is completely still, snoring softly behind Geralt who -entirely for show- begrudgingly allowed the bard to spoon him at bedtime. You recall Yennefer teasing Jaskier about it, calling him Geralt’s knapsack because he’s short compared to Geralt. You also recall Jaskier throwing it back at her, saying that he’s been pushed out of bed plenty of nights because of Yennefer spooning Geralt across silently established mattress territories.

You look up and Geralt’s eyes are closed, but he’s awake as his thumb rubs your side where his hand rests. His chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm and for a moment you think he’s fallen asleep again but his low baritone wades through the seconds of quiet.

“I know,” he pauses, thinking about his words, “I’m not as er, _gifted_ with words, like Yen or Dandelion.” Finally, his eyes open and his gaze is a careful one, “If something like this happens again, tell one of us.”

You nod slowly, “I didn’t mean to hold it from you,” you say, “I never… I never got the chance to figure out what I am-”

“ _Who you are_ ,” Geralt rushes to correct you, his voice raising just a little. Jaskier grunts something unintelligible behind him and shifts for a moment before settling again. It isn’t a gruff correction. You make a note to ask Geralt what he means later, but you have to finish what you’re saying before the thought crawls away in your losing battle against sleep.

“It surprised me too,” your eyes slip closed for a second when a kiss is pressed to your forehead. Yen’s arms tighten around you a little again, but the mage doesn’t wake up. You open your eyes again and Geralt’s are closed but he nods gently, “But I promise I won’t hide anything anymore.”

He snorts, “Honeybee, you don’t have to take an oath quite like that.”

A grin tugs at your lips, “No, but when it comes to this, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Geralt slurs and after a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep again.

It’s tempting to stay up and ruminate, to marvel at how relaxed he looks, how quietly Jaskier snores or how soft Yen’s hands are as you place one of your own over hers. But you’ve had an exhausting day- one with a good end, but exhausting, nonetheless.

Everything else could wait until the morning. But for now, you’re content to be here without justifying it.


End file.
